


Never Have I Ever

by chief_johnson



Series: Little Devils [19]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Elevator Sex, F/F, Fluff, Humor, Smut, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:07:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23568820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chief_johnson/pseuds/chief_johnson
Summary: It should have been just a routine canvassing for the captain of SVU and her mischievous blonde detective, but if Olivia has learned one thing from her relationship with Amanda Rollins, it's to expect the unexpected—oh, and don't let her touch any buttons. (Tropey elevator goodness, PWP, Devilishverse but make it fluffy.)
Relationships: Olivia Benson/Amanda Rollins
Series: Little Devils [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1455775
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	1. Going Up

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write this fic for a while, and it turns out being stuck inside for weeks was the perfect inspiration. Especially since I also wanted to write a little something about how Rolivia handled a quarantine-like experience... without actually writing about the coronavirus. There are a few nods here and there to the current situation, but no worries, corona will not be mentioned except here in the notes. This is probably the most PWP (as in plot, what plot?) thing I've written for the Devilishverse, so expect fluff and nonsense. And yes, some smut. :) It's a two-parter. And it takes place after the in-progress third installment, to which there will be a couple vague references. Enjoy.

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[ ](https://imgur.com/ar16aYV)

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**Part 1:** Going Up

**. . .**

"Don't. You. Dare. Amanda Jo Rollins, if you push that button, so help me . . . "

Amanda pushed the button.

The elevator lurched to a halt, with a grinding of gears and cables that set Olivia's teeth on edge and catapulted her heart into her throat. She half expected the dinosaur of a car, essentially just a big box suspended on a frayed shoestring, to go plunging to the ground floor, the doors juddering open on a cloud of smoke and her and Amanda's corpses tumbling out, bloodied and bug-eyed.

Obviously she had seen one too many movies with over-the-top death scenes, but she also knew that emergency stop buttons had been discontinued in most elevators by the 1980s, because they posed a greater hazard than cars without them and caused more wear and tear on the equipment. But try telling that to the little blue-eyed blonde sidling up to her now, wearing a lazy smirk, thumbs tucked in pockets. Amanda had barely been alive in 1980.

"So help you, what?" Amanda teased, taking a step forward each time Olivia took one back. She pursued Olivia that way until they reached the far corner, ensnaring her there between the railings, a hand on either side. Locking both arms at the elbow, Amanda suspended herself above the ground, swinging slightly back and forth, like she was on a set of parallel bars. It gave her the height advantage, but how long she could sustain it was the real question. "So help you, you'll finish what you started this mornin'?"

Olivia knew better than to start a makeout session in bed with Amanda when they didn't have time to finish before work, otherwise she ended up in positions like this—stuck between floors in a rickety old death trap made of dented sheet metal, five stories up in the cruddiest apartment building she had seen for at least a month, an amorous detective trying to seduce her with bedroom eyes and gymnastic moves.

"So help you," Amanda drawled, head tilted thoughtfully against one scrunched up shoulder, "you'll pull my pants down, turn me over your knee, and warm my britches?"

"Well, now you're just being inconsistent. If I pull down your pants first, I can't very well 'warm your britches.'" Olivia cocked her eyebrow, keeping a relatively straight face in spite of the smile that wanted to break through. Amanda was awfully cute, and she looked so disappointed that Olivia had no intentions of spanking her in an elevator while they were both on duty. "Now can I?"

"You could." Amanda thrust her bottom lip forward, the childish pout even more endearing when she widened those baby blues and batted her dune-colored lashes. She was pulling out all the stops. "If you really wanted to, you'd find a way. Or . . . "

"Or . . . ?"

"Or you could just gimme one itty bitty kiss to tide me over," Amanda murmured, her lips drawing nearer by the minute. She was close enough to rub noses with Olivia, the smell of the powdered donuts she'd had for breakfast still detectable on her breath. (Truth be told, Olivia had snuck in a few extra kisses, just so she could lick off some of the powdered sugar. Yum.) "It would really help boost morale while we canvass."

"Does that mean I have to kiss Fin and Kat, too?" Olivia eased back almost imperceptibly, luring Amanda forward a little at a time. If the detective wanted it that badly, she was going to have to work for it. "Because I think that constitutes sexual harassment and is probably frowned upon behavior for the commanding officer of SVU."

Amanda was indeed frowning at the mention of Olivia's affection being directed at someone else.

She only just tolerated sharing it with the kids and the dogs. "You better not go kissin' anybody but me. That beanpole with hair comes anywhere near you with them lips of hers, I'm ripping 'em clean off."

Chuckling at the blonde's ferocity, Olivia gave her a light swat on the rear. Detective Rollins seemed to be under the impression that Olivia was her captain—and hers alone. That was fine in the bedroom, where it was one hundred percent true, but it made for some tense moments in the squad room. Occasionally Olivia felt like she ran the juvenile division of SVU: Fin was her class clown; Kat, her overachiever; and then there was Amanda the troublemaker, but also her absolute favorite. What was a captain to do? "Tough talk for such a small frhmmn."

You try pronouncing "fry" with a blonde stuck to your lips and see how well it goes. Olivia permitted the kiss for several moments longer than she typically would have while on the clock, mainly because they had already hit every apartment in the building and it was time to return to the precinct. That, and given the advanced age of the elevator and its lack of modern amenities, such as properly labeled buttons (floor numbers were scrawled in black marker on the tarnished brass panel), she doubted there were any security cameras present. She did, however, draw the line when Amanda's hands began to roam inside the flaps of her open trench coat.

"Okay, tiger," she said, cuffing Amanda a bit more soundly on the rump and nudging her off until she had no choice but to drop back onto solid ground. "That's enough . . . morale boosting for now. If you behave the rest of the day, I'll give you an extra big boost at home."

Shoulders slumped, Amanda gave a mournful little huff. "Ugh, fine. So much for 'Love in an Elevator.'"

"You really want to do it someplace that smells like a men's locker room and has some extremely inaccurate and troubling genitalia graffitied on the walls?" Olivia gestured at the five-foot penis, surrounded by a cluster of smaller baby penises performing various sex acts and other more menial tasks—one looked to be mopping up its own ejaculate—on the opposite wall. Bringing her hand down quickly, she delivered another playful swat to Amanda's retreating backside, the only work of art in which she was currently interested.

"Don't tempt me, darlin'." Amanda tossed a flirtatious wink over her shoulder, thumbing the emergency stop button ("Emerg Butt" it read, next to the clouded red plastic dot) at the same time. "You know I ain't picky."

"I'm not so sure I consider that a compliment," Olivia said dryly, arms crossed at her middle. "Either you're calling me picky or you're saying you'll just go for any old scrap of meat that falls—"

"Uh-oh."

Olivia cast a wary glance at the button Amanda was repeatedly jabbing with her thumb. "What, uh-oh?" she asked, maintaining a level tone, though her stomach did a sudden somersault when she noted that the car hadn't budged.

"Um, don't be mad." Amanda gradually turned, features fixed in a sheepish, wincing smile. She looked like Frannie when the dog got caught drinking from the toilet bowl. The only thing missing was the slobber. "I think we might be stuck? Button idn't working."

"Ha ha, very funny." Olivia stepped up to the filthy control panel—she made a mental note to wash her hands the full twenty seconds once she got out of this godforsaken building—shooed Amanda aside, and pressed the _Emerg Butt_.

She pressed it twice; she pressed it thrice.

No dice.

"Shit," she muttered, and began punching buttons at random with her middle finger, including _Cls Dr_ , _Opn Dr_ , and _Bsmint_. (BS mint just about summed it up, yeah.) When she reached the call button, designated by a crudely drawn handset to which someone—likely the same Monet of dick art over there—had added a pair of testicles, she held her breath and pushed hard. And:

Nothing. No ringing phone, no disembodied voice asking what was the problem, not even the distant sound of an alarm bell, alerting someone, anyone, that the elevator's occupants were in distress.

Olivia exhaled forcefully through her teeth and jammed the button rapidly, the way her college boyfriends had hammered at the buttons on arcade machines and Nintendo controllers during intense imaginary battles and outlandish obstacle courses. She hated video games. And she really hated being trapped in confined spaces. Like elevators or the trunk of a car . . .

Her pulse leapt at the comparison, and she released the useless call button with a disgusted sigh. With that, she began pacing to and fro in front of the sealed doors, suppressing the urge to pound on them and yell for help. She was a New Yorker through and through; she'd been stuck in malfunctioning elevators before. Once, she had spent the better part of an evening watching a man feed strands of his own hair to a sock puppet, while she sat at the opposite corner of the stalled lift, pretending to file her nails and subliminally showing him she had a weapon. Her fellow captive was much less worrisome this time, and as she focused on her breathing (in 4 counts, hold 7 counts, out 8 counts), she realized Amanda was already on the phone with Fin, apprising him of their situation.

"—stop laughin', I'm serious." Amanda eyed Olivia with concern, reaching out to offer a comforting pat on the shoulder. "Y'all need to contact the super or whoever and get us the hell outta here. Yeah. Uh-huh. Okay, but like, soon? This thing is a cesspool. I think I got diphtheria just standing in here. Okay. Thanks, Fin."

Ending the call, Amanda tucked the phone into her coat pocket and gently gathered Olivia to her, for a light, nonrestrictive hug. "I'm sorry, Liv. That was dumb as hell of me. I didn't really think it'd work, to tell the truth. Not this well, anyway."

"It's okay, love. I'm okay." Olivia took another deep breath and exhaled slowly, her cheek resting against Amanda's soft, sunny hair. She kept hoping that all the button pushing would magically kick in, the car surging back to life, but the longer she wished for it, the more apparent it became they were actually stuck. "I just want to get out of here."

Amanda eased back at arm's length to look Olivia in the eye. She jerked a little nod up at the ceiling. "You sure? 'Cause if you give me a boost, bet I can shinny on out that hatch and see what I find . . . "

"How about you just settle down there, Mission: Impossible?" Olivia brought her palms down heavily on top of Amanda's shoulders, keeping her grounded. The last thing she needed was the detective to come crashing through the ceiling and break a leg, or to throw her own back out trying to lift one hundred and thirty pounds of dead weight (cute or not). And those weren't even the dangerous scenarios. "Help is on the way, right? Let's give it a chance to show up. If we're not out by tomorrow morning, I promise I'll let you Tom Cruise us to safety."

"Oh, you'll _let_ me, huh?" Amanda's tone and expression conveyed a saucy swagger, though she hadn't moved a muscle. She pursed her lips to hide a smile, but the dimple gave her away. "You think you're in charge or somethin'?"

Olivia rolled her eyes, even as she slid her hands down for a squeeze at Amanda's pert behind. "Honey, I don't think. I know I'm in charge."

**_. . ._ **

_One hour later._

Olivia wasn't in charge of shit, she decided, dropping her head back against the sheet metal paneling with a _thunk_. She had given up trying not to touch the walls about fifteen minutes ago when Fin texted an update: superintendent notified, asst. arriving shortly. Sit tight, don't kill each other. Breathe.

She'd added that last part, her attempts to stave off panic becoming less and less effective as the minutes passed by. She had already read all the latest news articles, or at least skimmed the headlines; contacted Lucy, in case the confinement truly did last beyond her regular shift; scrolled through Facebook and Twitter, alternately pressing the like and mute buttons with reckless abandon; and winnowed her photo album of the blurry shots, which were many, thanks to a certain trio of youngsters who loved to play with Mommy's phone—and thanks to Mommy herself, whose photography skills were only slightly better than her drawing.

Now her cell battery was at 48% and draining fast. She wanted to conserve some of it for receiving calls and texts, should Fin try to contact her again, so she switched off the screen and dropped hand and phone against her thigh, sighing dramatically. Amanda, who was propped against the opposite wall, ankles crossed in front of her, looked up from her colorful, mooing phone screen. She was playing a preschooler's barnyard game she'd downloaded weeks ago for Jesse and Matilda.

"I know," she said sympathetically, and mirrored Olivia's defeated posture, including conking her head on the wall behind her. "I really screwed the pooch this time. Have I mentioned I'm sorry?"

"Only a few hundred times." Olivia offered up a vague smile to show she was kidding. (Mostly.) Then, without warning, she opened her mouth in a massive, jaw-cracking yawn that made her eyes water profusely. "Wow, 'scuse me," she said around it, the words unintelligible. She wiped the tears away with her knuckle, thankful she'd found a bottle of hand sanitizer in the bottom of her purse after touching the control panel earlier. She didn't need to take pinkeye home to her children. If she ever got back there.

"Sleepy?" Amanda asked in amusement, but suddenly stifled a reciprocal yawn. She sniffed loudly when it was over and stretched her arms wide, hands behind her head, chest puffed out, an extravagant moan on her lips. It was very distracting.

"Yeah, I haven't had my mid-morning coffees yet." Catching herself speaking to Amanda's breasts, Olivia pried her eyes away and focused on the pretty face above, ignoring the knowing grin it flashed at her. "If I don't get some more caffeine in me soon, things might get ugly. FYI."

Amanda raised a single, pale eyebrow, looking more intrigued than deterred by the warning. She pushed off the wall with her shoulder and sidled over to Olivia's side of the elevator, hands in her coat pockets. Innocent as you please. "I know something that'll wake you up."

"I am not having sex with you in this pit of depravity and squalor, you little freak."

"That's not what I meant," Amanda said with a snicker. She reached up to twitch Olivia's unfolded lapel back into place, though it didn't really need it. "I was talking about playing a game."

Eyes narrowed to darkly mascaraed slits, Olivia regarded her detective with mild but good-natured suspicion. She turned towards Amanda, only a few inches of space remaining between them. "What kind of a game? And it better not have 'strip' in the title."

"Hm, well. I was thinking more along the lines of something verbal. Like Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon or Never Have I Ever, but I see where your mind is."

Olivia wrinkled her nose at the suggestions. She had never played the Six Degrees game because she would undoubtedly lose. Her gift for remembering names and faces did not extend to current celebrities, for whom she had very little interest. There were a select few whose work she enjoyed and talent she admired—Lin-Manuel Miranda, Meryl Streep, Julie Andrews, Tom Hanks—but for the most part, their world was so far removed from hers, they might as well be on different planets. "All I know Kevin Bacon from is _Footloose_. And isn't Never Have I Ever a drinking game?"

A thoughtful expression crossed Amanda's features, and she held out a hand, wiggling her fingers. "Gimme your Tic Tacs."

"Uh, okay . . . " Olivia rummaged blindly through the large black bag on her shoulder (it was killing her, but she'd be damned if she would set it on the filth-encrusted floor below) until she came upon something that felt like a large plastic Easter egg. She withdrew the container and rattled the two hundred count freshmints at Amanda. "Is this your subtle way of telling me I have bad breath?"

"Only that one time when you ate the garlic pasta thing." Amanda intercepted the candy, flipped open the dispenser with her thumb, and shook a lone white Tic Tac into her palm. She displayed it like a magician showing the audience an important card, then popped it into her mouth. "Drink," she said, the tiny capsule pinched between her teeth. "Your turn."

 _Ohh_.

Standing up straight, Olivia squared her shoulders and shook out her long, dark hair behind her. Normally she hated these types of games, which were just a poorly disguised means of sticking your nose into other people's business. But Amanda was her business, and vice versa. If nothing else, it would pass the time. She cleared her throat. "Okay, hit me."

In an eerily spot-on imitation of their friend Daphne Tyler, Amanda gave a gleeful bounce that shook the entire car. Oh, Lord. "Never have I ever," she said with a little too much gusto, as if she'd been preparing for this moment for quite a while, "surfed porn at work. Recreationally."

"Wow. We're jumping right in, huh?" Olivia blinked hard a few times, trying to process the question. She hadn't counted on pornography showing up so early in the conversation—or at all, really. She declined the Tic Tacs when Amanda held them out expectantly.

"Aw, not even once?" The detective's shoulders sagged a bit. She looked like a kid who had just been told she couldn't go to the park to play with her friends.

"Nope. You know how I feel about porn. It's exploitative and degrading to women, and it's not even sexy. It gives men and boys totally unrealistic expectations, distorts girls' body images, promotes dangerous sex practices, and leads to infidelity." Olivia ticked off each offense on her fingers, then jutted out her thumb. "Plus, there's no plot."

Amanda gazed at her in utter chagrin. Based on that look, Olivia might as well have said she hated puppies and wished Betty White a slow and painful death. "Yeah, but . . . not even, like, a sneak peek at a _Playboy_ or something?"

"Sorry, no. I—"

Wait. Olivia's mouth closed with an audible plop, and she tilted her head to one side, momentarily lost in thought. The heat, beginning at the base of her neck, slowly filtered up to her cheeks and out to the tips of both ears. In her eagerness to decry the adult entertainment industry, she had forgotten a very small, youthful indiscretion from so long ago it hardly seemed relevant or even real. "Well, okay, there was this one thing . . . "

"Yeah?" Amanda leaned forward, blue eyes alight with anticipation and suppressed mirth. She was always terribly amused by the stories of Olivia's so-called "bad girl" behavior—at least the ones not rooted in trauma. "Lay it on me, Cap'n."

"I worked in the campus library for a while in college, and I used to sneak off behind the stacks to read all the dirty parts in the erotica section." Olivia ducked her head a bit shyly, peering up through her eyelashes to see the detective's reaction. It was a fairly tame confession and she wasn't really that embarrassed by it, but pretending could be fun. Especially when it made Amanda grin like a five-foot-seven-inch Cheshire cat. "Does that count?"

Amanda made a show of deliberating, scrunching up one eye, the other aimed at the ceiling as she hemmed and hawed. Finally she relented, tapping a Tic Tac into Olivia's outstretched palm. "I'll give you that one, since it happened before the invention of the Internet."

"You don't have to say it like you mean 'before the wheel' or 'before fire,' you know," Olivia commented, pinching the tablet and placing it delicately on her tongue. She had an avid audience as she pursed her lips, sucking on the minty candy. She preferred the orange-flavored—which were nowhere to be found in the larger packs—but she hummed over this one as if it were a spoonful of ice cream and decadent hot fudge and trailed her tongue around the outer rim of her mouth. If porn was what Amanda wanted . . .

A soft "huh" escaped the blonde's gently parted lips, and she covered them quickly, faking an unconvincing cough. Olivia reached around to pat Amanda on the back, trying to muffle a laugh of her own as she inquired, "You okay, sweetie?"

"Uh-huh. It's, uh, it's your turn."

Olivia would have liked to torture the younger woman some more, but it appeared they were going to be stuck in place awhile longer. There was plenty of time to get her detective hot and bothered; she might as well draw out the process a little. Better a slow burn than a raging inferno in such tight quarters.

"Hmm, let's see." Olivia tapped her chin and gazed around the elevator, searching for inspiration. The litter in the corner and a totally unrelated rumbling in her belly were just the right combination. "Never have I ever taken something out of the trash and eaten it," she said, and fixed a dubious look on the container of Tic Tacs, hoping it wouldn't be upended. She had seen Amanda dig scraps from the wastebasket and feed them to the dogs—that was bad enough.

"Sheesh. Good to know you think I'm so classy." Amanda tried to sound offended, but she happily accepted the peck on the cheek that Olivia offered as an apology when the mints went untouched.

"I have seen you eat a pancake that landed flat on the floor . . . "

"Five second rule."

"And pick brown schmutz out of Frannie's fur and taste it because you couldn't tell if it was poop or chocolate."

"That was one time," Amanda countered, arms folded defensively. She gave an affected little sniff, her nose in the air. "And the joke's on you, 'cause it _was_ chocolate."

Propping her elbow against the wall, Olivia rested head in hand and scrutinized Amanda with bemusement and deep affection. "Well, don't I feel like a complete jackass," she said wryly, and crossed one foot over the other, balancing the toe of her boot on the floor. Three inch heels were one thing when she was on the move, but standing in them for an hour straight was starting to take its toll. "Next time you want to eat off our dogs, you go right ahead, my love."

"Hush your mouth," Amanda said, grinning all the while and stretching out the toe of her almost identical boot to nudge the foot Olivia still had planted on the ground. "My turn. Never have I ever masturbated in public."

Olivia snorted outright at that one. "Seriously? What kind of pervert do you take me for, with these questions?" She splayed her hand open against her chest, head shaking in mild dismay. She rolled her eyes when Amanda nevertheless held out the Tic Tacs hopefully.

"Aw, come on. Not even behind the stacks in the library when you snuck off to read trashy novels?" Amanda rattled the breath mint container like a maraca, twitching one of her slender shoulders to the beat. She added a seductive little wiggle of the hips, barely visible beneath her long coat—but Olivia could picture it clearly. She'd seen those tiny hips at work, and under a lot less covering, plenty of times.

"No, not even—" Olivia stopped short, her lips formed into a small, astonished "O" as yet another memory came flooding back to her. Damn. She flushed in earnest now and set her boot down firmly beside the other, studying the tops of both as if fascinated by the shiny black leather.

"Oh my Lord, you have," Amanda crowed. She crouched down to peer under Olivia's mantle of dark hair and into her warm, glowing face. "I didn't really expect that one to be true. I's just bullshitting you. But now I gotta know. Tell me everything."

"It's not that big of a deal."

"Ev-ree-thing."

Heaving a deep sigh, Olivia let the story tumble out in one long breath: "In the crib of the old precinct, about five hundred years ago, and there was hardly anybody around, so it wasn't even 'in public' per se, and it was after the longest stakeout ever, and I just needed the release. What, stop looking at me like that."

"In the _precinct_? That's like doing it in your house of worship. Olivia Margaret Benson, I am shocked." Amanda bit her bottom lip, stifling the laughter that bounced the shoulders of her trench coat. "Remind me to knock next time your office door is closed."

"Shut up." Olivia poked at Amanda's ribs and pouted when she got no reaction. Sometimes it was really unfair that her detective didn't have a ticklish bone anywhere in that cute, compact body of hers. Meanwhile, Olivia practically shuddered at a light breeze.

"Did you at least wash your hands after?"

Speaking of hands. Amanda inched closer and slipped hers inside of Olivia's coat, stroking idly at her sides. Sure enough, Olivia shivered at the light, meandering touch, goosebumps pricking up on her arms and scalp. "Of course," she said, and tsked her tongue at the question. She was doing her best not to acknowledge Amanda's wandering hands and the nuzzling. It was so hard to ignore the nuzzling. "I'm not a complete—" Her breath caught softly when Amanda's lips grazed her just beneath the jaw, pressing a tender kiss there. "H-heathen."

"Nah, but you are naughtier than I thought," Amanda murmured, trailing a few extra kisses along the same path as the first. She didn't linger too long in one place, didn't nibble or suck at the skin she was worshiping. It saddened Olivia that the detective was still a bit tentative with her at times, but she supposed she understood why. They would both be recovering from last Christmas for a while.

Olivia looped her arms under Amanda's, pulling her into a snug embrace and kissing her pallid, unblemished forehead. A hint of citrus-scented shampoo, bright and lemony, clung to the fair strands that tickled Olivia's nose. She closed her eyes and inhaled the fragrance, forgetting for a second the predicament they were in. The blonde had that effect on her. "Are you disappointed in me?" she asked, and though she was still teasing, she found herself quietly awaiting the answer.

"No, ma'am." Amanda tilted back for a mischievous smile, without breaking from their spontaneous hug. Maybe being trapped in an elevator for going on two hours wasn't so bad after all. They never got to be this close at work, unless they were leaning over each other's desks; although, now they kept more of a professional distance than they ever had before they were dating. "I could never be disappointed in you, darlin'. And I like your naughty side, in case you hadn't noticed."

Timing it just right, she slid her hands down to squeeze Olivia's ass at the same moment she mentioned her "naughty side." Olivia clenched reflexively and gave a throaty chuckle, caught off guard by the firm grip to such a sensitive area. Her detective was chock full of surprises, not the least of which was an ability to find Olivia's weak spots and use them to drive her crazy, most often sexually.

"I can see that," she said, sweeping a lock of long blonde hair behind Amanda's shoulder. It exposed a tantalizing slope of neck that reminded Olivia of a white calla lily, in its delicate and pristine grace. A blank canvas just waiting for an artist's hand . . . or lips. She dipped down for a warm, sumptuous kiss to the tender skin, her fingers gliding up the other side.

She couldn't help smiling—Amanda did shiver this time. And when she drew back, her detective wore a dreamy, half-drunk expression that made her giggle. They spent the next half hour trading Never Have I Evers and abandoned the Tic Tacs in favor of making out whenever one of them had performed the suggested action.

("You've come to work commando? When? Under me?"

"Baby, I'm commando as we speak. And I'll be under you anytime, just say the word . . .")

("Which ADA did you kiss? Come on, don't make me tickle it out of you. I will make you piss your pants in the middle of this elevator. At least tell me if it was a man or a woman. Oh shit, it wasn't Carisi, was it?"

"Aman— Amanda! Seriously, stop. I'm n-not— s-stop! I'm not telling. But Carisi? Really? He's eight. He could be my child."

"I bet it was Cabot, wasn't it? _Barba?_ Please tell me it wasn't that walking penis Stone . . .")

**. . .**


	2. Going Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I talked to the Easter Bunny, and he said y'all might like an update. So here's some good ol'-fashioned Easter smut for you. :) Look, Jen, you totally guessed the chapter name, hehe! And I meant to thank my faithful beta Amy last time—thanks, Amy! Without you, the ladies would be wondering around on the wrong floor and not nearly as naughty at the end. :D Happy Easter, everyone.

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**Part 2:** Going Down

**. . .**

By the time hour two rolled around, Olivia had spread her trench coat on the floor, reverse side down, and taken a seat upon it. In the opposite corner and under Olivia's observant eye, Amanda was doing squats, wall push ups, stationary running, and occasional jumping jacks.

The endorphins were just as good—if not better—from watching, as from doing the exercises herself, in Olivia's opinion. And if the tiny blonde ball of energy happened to joggle the elevator into movement along the way, she wouldn't complain.

But so far, the only things joggling were the ground and Amanda's small, perky bosom. In addition to (supposedly) no panties, it appeared she wasn't wearing an underwire beneath her black top with the pattern of little red flowers. _Must be nice_ , Olivia thought, suddenly painfully aware of the underwire digging into her own rib cage. She rolled her shoulders back, arched her spine, and tugged at the offending bra cups until she'd squirmed into a more comfortable position. God, she missed the days of C cups and sometimes going braless altogether. There was a price to be paid for full, lush cleavage.

"Take it off," Amanda said breathlessly, before bending at the waist to touch her toes, then twisting and repeating. She glanced up, still doubled over and holding her ankles, wild blonde waves tumbling into her eyes. She puffed at her bangs, which merely fluttered and fell back into place. "Who's gonna know?"

"If we get out of here? Literally everyone I encounter. You know what they're like when I let them roam free." Olivia frowned a bit petulantly, crossing her arms and hunching her back against the wall. She had given up trying not to touch any of the surfaces inside the cruddy metal box around the time Fin texted to say the superintendent was running late. ( _No shit, Sherlock_ , she responded.) "They have minds of their own. They're practically sentient beings."

Amanda stood and tossed her hair back like she was in a Pantene commercial. Clutching her stomach, she let out a roar of laughter that sounded oddly flat in the elevator's poor acoustics. "Aw," she sighed, thumbing tears from beneath her eyes, "don't be mad at Laverne and Shirley, darlin'. They deserve a little freedom now and again."

Pausing in the middle of resituating herself on the coat below—her legs were just too damn long to sit daintily—Olivia stared up at Amanda for a second, one ear turned in her direction. "Come again?" she asked, though she knew exactly what she'd heard. "You named my breasts Laverne and Shirley? Without consulting me first?"

"What, they were a couple of cute, hardworkin' gals . . . " Amanda's gaze trailed down to Olivia's chest, tracing the outline of each curve, mentally removing every layer of clothing that enveloped them. Olivia had been undressed by plenty of eyes before, male and female alike, but she'd never welcomed or encouraged it—until those brilliant blue eyes did the undressing. "Yours are a couple of cute, hardworkin' gals. I think it's pretty fittin', don't you?"

Olivia rolled her eyes, but made no attempt to close the front of her corduroy blazer. It was the olive green, which had once prompted Amanda to comment out of the blue, "I could eat you on a slice of pizza right now," before exiting Olivia's office and moseying back to her desk like she hadn't just propositioned the boss. Today, Olivia wore it with a simple black V-neck underneath, the soft cotton cutting some of the corduroy's stiffness. She still had the urge to shrug the blazer off, although she would probably be pounced on by a rabid blonde.

"Well. I suppose it's better than Schlemiel and Schlimazel," she said, smirking.

Finished with the cool-down stretches, Amanda wandered over—a whole two steps—and flopped down on the coat spread out beside Olivia's. "You know, I never understood what that meant. Were they just making up nonsense words?"

"It's Yiddish, love," Olivia explained, adjusting the leather band of her watch. It had gotten wedged inside her sleeve, creating an uncomfortable bulge beneath the cuff. She played with it idly, twisting the blackberry-colored strap around her wrist. "A schlemiel is an awkward, unlucky failure. Schlimazel is basically the same, just more consistently unlucky."

When she looked up again, the detective was gazing at her with an oddly intent expression. "What?" she asked, a hand going up to smooth her hair.

"How'd you get so damn smart?" Amanda watched her fuss needlessly with her hair for a moment, then captured her wrist and drew it over to resume fidgeting with the watch herself. She nudged it back and forth on Olivia's wrist, fingering the dark strap, her nails just grazing the flesh on either side.

"My mother was an English professor. Words were one of the few ways we actually connected." Olivia chucked Amanda lightly under the chin with her knuckle when the blonde cast a sad glance from the watch face to hers, and back again. "So I learned as many of them as I could. It did wonders for my SAT scores."

For a while they were silent, Amanda working her way up from the watch to massage Olivia's palm with nimble, needlelike fingers. Then, sighing deeply, she laid the hand in her lap and reached around to pinch the back of her shirt. After some maneuvering, she unbuttoned the shirred cuff of her blouse, fished around inside the sleeve, and unthreaded her arm from the bra strap on that side. She went through the same steps on the opposite side, but kept hold of the strap and finished by pulling the whole kit and caboodle out of her sleeve. Definitely a wireless bra. She bunched it up and stuffed it into Olivia's purse, returning to the massage as though she'd never left it.

"Show-off," Olivia said, but offered her other hand freely when Amanda motioned for it, that big shit-eating grin on her face.

Plying Olivia's knuckles with her hard little thumbs, Amanda gave a nonchalant shrug. "Figured one of us might as well be comfortable. And if you're not gonna set those puppies free . . . "

"Oh, so they're puppies now?"

"Yep, poor, sad caged puppies." Amanda quivered her lower lip pitifully, eyes widened to appear mournful and dewy. She really did look like that after one of those gut-wrenching commercials about abused and neglected pets came on the TV. Detective Rollins cried over exactly two things: her kids and the first few melancholy notes of Sarah McLachlan serenading mistreated animals (and sometimes reality dating shows).

And now, apparently, Olivia's boobs.

"Don't you want them to be free, Liv? Isn't it what they deserve?" Amanda walked two of her fingers up the front of Olivia's t-shirt, hooking her index finger into the V-neck and subsequently the cleavage beyond, and tugging lightly at the bridge between the cups and the sloped collar. "I'd be happy to assist, if you need backup. Or support of any kind. Spiritual or physical."

"You're so full of shit, your eyes are turning brown," Olivia said, shooing Amanda's hand away.

The blonde retracted, sulking for all of half a second—until Olivia sat up and began removing her blazer. Then: kittens and rainbows and honkytonk parades. Eagerly, she helped slip the blazer off, and even folded it nicely before placing it on top of Olivia's purse. She returned with her hands poised like a gloved surgeon, ready to catch anything else that was thrown her way. "Need help?" she asked, when Olivia fumbled behind her back with her right hand only.

She could have used the left as well, but too much stretching and straining on that side sometimes led to a stiff, achy shoulder. Usually, she relied on the old lady method of de-strapping, twisting, and unclasping her bra from the front. But that wasn't nearly as sexy as doing it one-handed, with her tits thrust forward, practically close enough for Amanda to drool on.

"I got it." Of its own volition, her tongue poked from the corner of her mouth as she manipulated the clasp. The first hook came undone easily enough, but the next two weren't cooperating. "I've seen _Flashdance_ , you know. I learned to take my bra off this way while you were still in training pants and sippy cups, dearie."

Amanda flicked up an eyebrow at the pet name and made a conceding gesture, indicating Olivia was free to demonstrate her prowess at any time. "Let's see it, then. Jennifer Beals that shit for me, city girl."

 _Jennifer Beals, my ass_ , Olivia thought, swallowing a growl of frustration as the last hook and eye refused to separate. Jennifer Beals got any number of takes to perfect that simple, throwaway scene that haunted mere mortal women—who had only one chance to get it right and no longer possessed the dexterity of a twenty-year-old—for decades since. Biting her lip, Olivia jimmied the clasp one last time and breathed a deep sigh of relief when it sprung open. Ah, bliss.

She repeated the same business of removing the bra straps through her sleeves, as Amanda had done (far less tricky in a t-shirt, although probably not as mysterious or alluring), but when she prepared to whip the undergarment out through one of the armholes, she quickly realized her mistake. The lined cups and underwire were considerably larger than the last time she had attempted such a feat. Improvising, she stuck her hand down the front of her t-shirt and plucked the bra from inside.

"Jennifer can eat her heart out," she said, and gave the bra a triumphant twirl around her index finger by one of the limp straps. She slung it at Amanda then, a wicked grin playing on her lips when the detective blinked at the microfiber missile that hit her in the chest and flopped into her lap.

"Shame I didn't bring any singles," Amanda deadpanned, gazing down at the black bra with mild interest. Pinching it by the straps, she held it up to be admired in the light for a moment, before slipping it on over her blouse and settling back against the wall as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Just a B cup relaxing in a D cup the way most people loafed around the house in oversized sweaters.

Olivia eyed the pathetic, hangdog results of Amanda's spontaneous lingerie show, unable to hide her amusement. She poked one of the deflated cups, snorting at the indentation her finger left in the molded fabric. Nothing to fill it out. "Comfy, are we?"

"Yep. It's nice and warm," Amanda said, hugging the bra to her chest, savoring the leftover body heat and preventing any further poking.

The elevator wasn't particularly chilly and Amanda's cheeks were still rosy from her workout, but Olivia tipped her head sympathetically and extended an arm to her detective. "Are you cold, sweetheart? Come here, let me get you warmed up."

She didn't have to wait long. Amanda nestled in beside her almost at once, arms fitting snugly around her waist, head against her shoulder. Olivia unfolded her blazer and draped it around them as a makeshift blanket, most of it going to Amanda—little covers-thief that she was. "Can't have Lenny and Squiggy catching a chill now, can we?" she added, when the blonde had settled.

"Lenny and Squig— hey!" Amanda swatted Olivia on the hip, but there was laughter in her reprimanding tone. "You are not naming my tits after those doofuses. At least I gave yours cute, girly names."

" _Laverne_. How is that cute? What, am I supposed to start wearing a cursive 'L' on my left boob?" Olivia was enjoying herself too much to care that the conversation had devolved into utter nonsense. Sometimes a bit of nonsense could be a good thing, especially while trying not to lose your mind inside a seven-foot wide, six-foot deep steel coffin. "Besides, it goes with yours. The pesky sidekicks who have the hots for the girls upstairs. Downstairs? I forget how they were neighbors."

"I am not a sidekick. I'm the co-lead of this here show, baby."

Amanda's hands were roving again, and Olivia didn't discourage them. When they dropped in to say hello to Laverne and Shirley, she greeted them warmly.

**. . .**

Hours three and four were spent dozing with their heads together, occasionally switching whose head was on whose shoulder; several games of tic-tac-toe, played on the notepad Olivia carried in her purse for jotting down eyewitness statements and other important details (the last entry, made earlier that morning, read simply: _Coffee_ ); and so many rounds of thumb wrestling, Olivia's hand began to cramp ("You just can't stand losing," Amanda accused, lifting the afflicted hand for a kiss to the knuckles).

By the fifth hour, Olivia's stomach had started to rumble, quietly at first, but eventually reaching a crescendo that made Amanda sit up, hearken an ear, and exclaim, "Hear that? Hallelujah, I think the buzz saws have arrived."

"Very funny." Olivia scrunched up her face in a silent, sarcastic chuckle, then stuck out her tongue at the cheeky blonde. "I didn't eat my weight in powdered donuts this morning, like some people."

Amanda held up her hand, fingers spread apart. "I only had five, and they were the mini ones. I used to eat, like, triple that."

"How are you not eight hundred pounds?" Olivia asked, shaking her head in wonder. She pinched lightly at Amanda's trim little waist, a fond smile unraveling on her lips in spite of herself. As far as she was concerned, she had the cutest girlfriend in all five boroughs. She could fritter away an entire day—or at least a few hours in an elevator—just marveling at how all that sass and bravado could fit into one tiny person.

And all those donuts.

"Got myself the metabolism of a jackrabbit, that's how." Amanda executed a wide, boastful stretch, looking more like a strutting rooster than a rabbit. She was still wearing Olivia's bra, and she shimmied her shoulders, bouncing the cups back and forth against her chest when she noticed Olivia snickering. "Yes, ma'am, a regular ol' jackrabbit, I do declare. And not just at the breakfast table."

"Must you sexualize everything, including bunnies?" Olivia asked, groaning as Amanda got on all fours and crawled into her lap, straddling her thighs. For such a small thing, the detective sure could throw her weight around.

From her perch on Olivia's folded legs, Amanda reached out to fiddle with the flimsy collar of Olivia's t-shirt, trailing her finger along the inside. She bit her lip, eyes downcast, as she dipped into the "V" that culminated at Olivia's cleavage—or had before the bra came off. She didn't seem to mind the change in altitude; in fact, she appeared more than happy to delve further in for a lazy, loving caress with the backs of her fingers. "Can't help myself," she murmured, her gaze sultry and heavy-lidded when she glanced up. God, she really could turn it on fast. "You know what you do to me."

Olivia swallowed hard, trying to maintain some decorum, some control over her body's reaction to the soft touch, the honey-thick voice, the subtly shifting pressure in her lap. "Yeah, and I'm not doing it to you in the Elevator from Hell," she said with far less conviction than she'd intended.

The last text she got from Fin before her phone died had been a status update on the super, who was "running a little late." ( _Understatement of the goddamn year_ , she'd texted back. Her iPhone gave up the ghost just as she touched the send button, and Amanda's cell was hanging on by a quivering fifteen-percent thread.) That was twenty minutes ago, and rescue seemed no more imminent than it had since they first tried the _Emerg Butt_ and the testicled phone. In all likelihood, they had plenty of uninterrupted time on their hands . . .

"You sure?" Amanda stroked idly at the front of Olivia's t-shirt, grinning when she grazed over two rather prominent contradictions to the no sex guidelines. She palmed both breasts, applying firm, circular friction to the nipples, awakening a delicious ache in Olivia's core. "You sound awful rumbly in your tumbly. I know something sweet you could snack on. Clear that hunger right up."

"If you're trying to turn me on with Winnie the Pooh quotes, I think it's time we seriously reevaluate our sex life." Olivia did a passable job of hiding the husk in her voice. She was still thinking clearly enough to make jokes, so that was a good sign. But her eyelashes fluttered involuntarily, eyes drifting back in their lids each time Amanda did that pinch and roll thing with her fingers. (Shit, that felt good.)

"Just thought you might want a taste of my honey," Amanda purred, hips rotating suggestively. She gathered one of Olivia's hands into one of hers, folding down all but the index and middle fingers, which she then inserted in her mouth and gently sucked. She withdrew them with agonizing leisure, making many of the same sounds she usually reserved for when her face was buried in a plate of biscuits and gravy—or between Olivia's thighs. "I'll let you lick the spoon . . . "

It was all Olivia could do not to whimper. With the hand not currently covered in saliva, she made a mad grab for her purse and scrounged at the bottom, where everything from BIC caps to bobby pins to wadded tissues settled like silt, until she unearthed her prize. "Aha," she cried triumphantly, brandishing the half-eaten bag of peanut M&M's at Amanda. Leftover dessert from yesterday's lunch break at the vending machines. "I'll just satisfy my hunger the good old-fashioned way for now, thanks. Honey is much too . . . sticky to be enjoyed in these conditions, _honey_."

Amanda scoffed, rolling her eyes with the exaggeration of a teenager reacting to a mom joke; nevertheless, she instantly opened her mouth and accepted the green M&M Olivia placed on her tongue. Home run. And the bases were loaded.

"Well, if you're not going to take advantage of the situation," she said, untucking the candy from inside her cheek and cracking it slowly between her back molars, "mind if I do?"

"Hm?" Olivia had just emptied three of the candies into her palm, depositing them all in her mouth at once. She munched steadily at first, watching with interest as Amanda demonstrated her meaning, beginning by removing the ridiculously oversized bra from her shoulders.

The chewing slowed considerably as, bra discarded, Amanda plucked at the top few buttons of her blouse, letting it fall widely open against her creamy white chest. She worked the hem of the blouse loose from inside her waistband, liberating each button as she went. When she reached the last, she draped both sides of the silky material prettily from her shoulders, showcasing her perfect, peach-like breasts. Every bit as soft and sweet as the fruit itself. Waiting to be scooped up, feasted on by ravenous lips and teeth.

Olivia swallowed with a loud gulp, nearly choking on the half-masticated mouthful of chocolate shell and peanuts that went down her throat like gravel. She gave an abrupt, strangled cough into her elbow and just managed to rasp, "'Manda. Cameras," while pointing up.

"Babe, we've been stuck in here for five hours and no one's even noticed." Amanda urged Olivia to sit up from the wall, patting her briskly on the back until the hacking subsided. Her breasts jounced lightly with each stroke of the arm, inches from Olivia's face. The powdery scent of body wash still clung to her skin from that morning's shower, a hint of perspiration from her earlier cardio session lingering underneath. It was even more mouthwatering than the candy. "You really think anyone's watching? Besides, if there ever was a camera in here, it's been stripped and sold for parts by now."

True. And Olivia did so long to lean in, take those posy-pink nipples between her teeth, and turn them bright blush red. There weren't many things that made Olivia Benson go weak-kneed and gooey inside, but Amanda's tits were an exception. They were just so . . . _pink_.

Hastily, she shoved another M&M in her mouth. She needed something to suck on.

"Speaking of stripped parts," said Amanda, biting into each consonant like a crisp, juicy apple. She was playing up the sensuality—in her voice and her movements—to an almost absurd degree, and damned if it wasn't sexy as hell.

Casually, she trailed her fingertips along the edge of her open blouse, just skimming the surface of her pale skin and the outer curve of one breast. Breathing a gentle sigh, she began caressing the full circumference of that breast and then the other, her hand weaving in and out in a slow, hypnotic figure eight. It was as graceful and stirring as a ballet, her fingers the nimbly tripping dancers, her nipples en pointe when she glided over them, teasing with her thumb. "Mmmm," she hummed, closing her eyes and touching herself the way she normally touched Olivia.

The blue dye on Olivia's M&M had no doubt faded, leaving behind a murky white shell that disintegrated into mush when she finally remembered to chew. She involuntarily crumpled the bag in her hand as she watched Amanda slide a palm down her exposed torso, trace a few idle circles around her belly button the way Olivia would have, and undo the abbreviated little zipper in the low-rise waist of her skinny black slacks. She hadn't been lying about going commando. _Fuck_.

"Amanda . . . "

"Yeah, baby?" Amanda opened her eyes, an innocent expression on her already angelic features, even as she surpassed the waistband of her slacks, fingers disappearing into the darkness beyond. She dropped her shoulder a bit, arm straightening as she pressed further in, her lips parting for a shallow intake of air. She rose up slightly on her knees, still straddling Olivia, hips rocking forward subtly to meet the thrust of her hand. "Need somethin'?" she asked, settling into a steady, breathless rhythm.

Whatever had been on the tip of Olivia's tongue was now lost forever. Something about public lewdness or indecent exposure. Conduct unbecoming. So many excuses and none of them anywhere near as compelling as the sight of the detective pleasuring herself in Olivia's lap. Amanda bit her bottom lip and moaned, one hand massaging her breasts, the other fitted snugly between her legs, flexing at the wrist.

The moan pushed Olivia over the edge. "You're going to get me fired one of these days, you little nympho," she said in a throaty whisper, and pulled Amanda in for a heated kiss. She was vaguely aware of the remaining M&M's scattering across the elevator floor when she caught Amanda by the waist, rolled onto one hip, and eased the slender blonde onto her back against the island of trench coats. She blocked out all thoughts of voyeurism, propriety, germs—five hours locked in a dirty cell had a way of breaking down your inhibitions, awakening your basic animal desires—and focused solely on the woman beneath her.

"We can turn in our shields together," Amanda murmured, tugging Olivia into another lengthy kiss before the words had fully left her mouth. She groaned wantonly and pressed their lips together harder, her tongue hot and needy, when Olivia's hand replaced hers inside the tight-fitting slacks. Grasping Olivia's wrist, she held on like she was in the saddle, trying to steer a runaway stallion.

But there was no slowing down once Amanda got started. Within a few minutes she was writhing in ecstasy, Olivia's fingers deep inside her, pumping in time with her jerking pelvis. It was hell on the joints, and thumb cramps would be the least of Olivia's worries after this, but she kept up the pace in spite of the burning in her wrist and shoulder. Sometimes a little pain mixed in with the pleasure served to heighten the whole experience; a little bitter to temper so much sweet.

She curled her fingers against the soft, spongy dip of flesh that lay just behind Amanda's pubic mound. Olivia had never given much thought to the G-spot, until one memorable and deafening evening months earlier, when she'd happened upon Amanda's, quite by accident. She still didn't care for the stimulation herself—not on the inside, anyway—but her detective responded enthusiastically whenever she located the spot and beckoned.

It only took three good strokes for Amanda to give in with a sharp, desperate cry, hunching her body around the sensation, as if she could curl up inside of it. She gripped Olivia's arm, driving her deeper into the warm contractions, then wilting against her all at once when they subsided. Moments later, she opened her eyes and blinked up dazedly to find her head cushioned in Olivia's lap.

"Hey there, little pretty." Olivia smiled lovingly down at Amanda, brushing the hair back from her sweaty temples. The blonde definitely had that post-sex glow everyone talked about. She was the shiniest thing in this dump.

"What year is it?" Amanda asked, panting and making a weak effort to sit up. She slumped back in utter defeat after the first attempt and let her head loll into Olivia's lap again, waiting for the chuckling to die down. "Seriously. I think I left my body. I saw God."

Olivia giggled, wiping her fingers with a Kleenex from her purse. She stuffed the tissue into her pants pocket, where she would remember to throw it away later, and squeezed a dollop of Purell into her hands. "Did you tell him to get us the hell outta here?"

"I believe my exact words were 'flangin hasenpfeffer.' I think he got the message." Amanda rolled her eyes, but accepted the sanitizer Olivia squirted into her palm. She rubbed her hands together vigorously and sat up without any trouble, real or pretend. She'd been doing stomach crunches like a fiend since mid-February—trying to restore her abs to their thirty-year-old glory, she claimed—and it was certainly paying off. Olivia could have leaned over and licked that glistening torso, had Amanda not begun righting her disheveled blouse and slacks, unaware of the missed opportunity she was buttoning and zipping away.

Ah, well. Maybe later. At home. In bed.

"Too bad you don't have a change of clothes in there for me," Amanda commented, peering inside Olivia's purse as though she suspected otherwise. She poked at the contents with her finger, making silly and scandalized faces based on what she discovered: a pair of tweezers in a little pouch, a foldable lint brush, and a lone purple crayon earned the silly face; her bra, a travel-size bottle of hand lotion, and a rogue M&M were cause for scandal and clucking of the tongue.

"I'll try to remember to bring you clean underwear next time we're trapped in an elevator." Olivia plucked a tube of lipstick from Amanda's curious, grabby hands before she could uncap it and do God knew what. She dropped the lipstick into her bag, smoothed out the wadded trench coats, and resumed her seat beside the detective.

"So, you're already planning our next elevator quickie, eh?" Amanda bumped her shoulder against Olivia's, eyebrows wagging lasciviously.

"I said nothing about a quickie." Reaching for Amanda's arm, Olivia looped it through her own. "All I said was 'trapped.'"

"The quickie was implied."

"No, it wasn't."

"Yuh-huh, why else would we be stuck like this again, if not for sex?"

"Because some horny blonde just can't keep her fingers off the button she was told not to push?"

Amanda turned to nip at Olivia's earlobe, hand sliding to the inside of her thigh. "I can think of some other buttons I'd rather get my fingers on," she burred, toying with the front of Olivia's t-shirt. "Here and here . . . and all the way down—"

Catching Amanda's hand before it could sneak any farther along her thigh, Olivia held it in place with a firm, scolding pat. "This elevator's out of order. Try again later when it's had something to eat and drink and doesn't have to pee."

"Oh Lord, you too?"

"So bad. Thinking about using that corner over there. I doubt anybody would notice the difference."

For the next hour, they distracted each other from their full bladders by debating who had to pee the worst; playing a game called Where's Wanko? (invented by Olivia, it involved describing one of the penis drawings on the opposite wall and timing how long it took the other person to find it); playing M&M pool with the spilled candy, the purple crayon from Olivia's purse serving as a cue stick (Amanda's idea); and trying to remember all the lyrics to "Copacabana," which Amanda then sang in its entirety (Olivia was only permitted to join in for the chorus).

By hour seven, climbing out the top hatch of the car and spelunking down the shaft—and into sweet, sweet freedom—had begun to sound like a plausible idea. Olivia was moments away from submitting to Amanda's request for a boost when a loud metal screech interrupted overhead, followed by a thick New York accent bawling, "How's about I get you ladies outta there and home in time for supper?"

Supper sounded like "suppa," and frankly, it was the most beautiful accent Olivia had ever heard. Amanda must have agreed because she tilted her head back and hollered up at the ceiling, "Praise the Lord!"

"Sir, if you get us out of here, I will buy you a steak dinner at the finest restaurant in the whole damn city," Olivia called.

"Make it a pizza and you got yourself a deal, lady."

An hour later, after every other method of raising the elevator had been exhausted, Amanda got her wish. Jake the fireman, their savior and the man to whom Olivia owed an extra large pepperoni pizza with onion and green olives, lowered a ladder in through the top hatch of the elevator. Via a second ladder propped on top of the car, they climbed to safety on the sixth floor landing. Bringing up the rear, Olivia made the sound effects for the _Mission: Impossible_ theme song during their ascent.

She scribbled Jake's contact information into the margins of her notepad, alongside the latticework of tic-tac-toe grids, all the while clasping her purse shut to conceal the tangle of bras inside, keeping her blazer and folded trench coat strategically placed over her chest, and trying not to dance around like she had ants in her pants. Never let it be said that Captain Benson was not a multitasker.

"Security cameras? They went kaput years ago," the superintendent explained, as Olivia bustled towards the downstairs exit with Amanda in tow. "Why? That some kind of code violation?"

"Nope, just checking. You're good," Olivia responded over her shoulder, pulling Amanda along by the hand. The detective was lagging behind, giggling at Olivia's frantic departure.

"You really gotta go that bad, darlin'? You should've used the janitor's bathroom. It wasn't _that_ bad . . . "

"I just spent eight hours in what smelled like the janitor's bathroom, I think I can hold it a little longer." Olivia tossed the car keys to Amanda over the hood of the Jeep. "And if you think buying Jake a pizza for getting me out of an elevator was generous, just imagine what I'll do for the person who gets me home ASAP."

Amanda grinned and ducked into the driver's seat, revving the Jeep's engine before Olivia had even opened the passenger door all the way. "Hop in, slow poke. I'll have you home quicker'n you can say 'Never have I ever fingered someone while driving.'"

"Never. Wait. While I was driving or while they were driving?"

"Either."

"Still a no. And you can just put that hand right back on the steering wheel and leave it there, Detective. Captain's orders."

**. . .**

**The End**

* * *


End file.
